


Baignade à Deux

by potentiallyAWKWARD



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing, Fluff, M/M, slight hurt/comfort aspect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 17:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14110551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiallyAWKWARD/pseuds/potentiallyAWKWARD
Summary: For CharCubed :) Happy belated birthday, friend!





	Baignade à Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwaysanoriginal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysanoriginal/gifts).



“I am not an _infant_ , John,” Sherlock huffed, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

The doctor shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it carelessly on the rack. “Of course not. Doesn’t mean you don’t need tending to every now and again.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock turned toward John, his pale face a stark contrast to the bruised cut colouring his temple. “I know how to properly _bathe_ myself. I don’t need you to hover over me like a worried mother.”

John closed the space between them, smiling as he leaned his forehead against the detective’s chest. “Look, I know you don’t need my help. But it’s been a long day and I’m exhausted and nothing would please me more than taking a nice hot bath with you before going to bed.”

Sherlock arms automatically enfolded his doctor, his right cheek resting on the top of John’s head. “You’re impossible.”

John smiled, tilting his head up to look at the detective. “I know. Now come on, it’s bath time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but allowed John to lead him to the bathroom. “You know, I could’ve solved the case at least two days sooner if it weren’t for the incompetence of Scotland Yard.”

John hummed in agreement, crouching to get the water running. Sherlock took the moment to admire him- his lean back muscles rolling as he reached and turned the knobs, his short blonde hair peppered with a few greys (despite John’s denials)- somehow, miraculously, all his.

Sherlock mindlessly unbuttoned his ocean blue shirt, shrugging it off alabaster shoulders. John turned away from the claw foot tub just as Sherlock was removing his belt.

The smile John gave him was full of love and admiration and awe and a thousand other nameless emotions that made Sherlock feel- well, _feel_. Tears stung at the back of his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently.

In a moment John was on his feet, peering worriedly at the detective. “What is it, love?”

Sherlock smiled reassuringly, leaning down so his face was even with John’s. “You.”

John’s brilliant smile returned, his minty breath fanning across Sherlock’s face as he kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, filling the bathroom with a different sort of light than the fluorescents overhead. “Come on then, let’s get you undressed.”

 _This_ was one of the few positives of this mandated bath time. He stepped slowly out of each shoe after John had unlaced them, pulling his trousers and pants off in one go. Last were the socks- John peeled them off reverently as if they were the Shroud of Turin wrapped around his ankles.

Before Sherlock had time to argue, John had stood and pulled off his jumper and undershirt and was reaching for his fly.

“I believe that’s my job,” Sherlock interrupted with a cheeky smirk. He took a step forward, looming over John as he reached down to unzip his denims. Through the fabric Sherlock felt the doctor’s cock stir weakly, but they were both too exhausted to acknowledge it.

Leaving John to remove his own socks, Sherlock tested the bath water. Of course it was the perfect temperature, not a single degree different than Sherlock would have prepared it to be. John never ceased to amaze. “Let me in first,” John protested as the detective went to step in. “I’m going to wash your hair.”

Sherlock froze, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

John matched the detective’s perplexed expression. “God, you’ve never had your hair washed properly, have you?”

Sherlock scoffed. “There’s not much to it, John.”

John shook his head in wonder. “I am about to rock your world, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and bit back a sarcastic remark, stepping aside to let the doctor into the tub first. Once he had settled, Sherlock climbed in as well, nestling between John’s spread legs.

The water sloshed over their warm bodies, and Sherlock marveled at how pleasant the sensation of John’s wet chest pressed against his own back was. Who knew bathing could be so enjoyable?

John cupped a handful of hot water, gently pouring it onto the detective’s ivory curls. Little streams flowed down Sherlock’s temples and nose, and he sunk lower so John could access his head with more ease.

Behind him, John twisted to the left to grab a bottle of shampoo. Judging by the angle of his torso to the wall, he was reaching for his own shampoo instead of Sherlock’s- he almost protested, but the inexplicable draw to John’s scent held him back. With an all-too-familiar flick, John opened the bottle, pouring twice as much shampoo into his palm as Sherlock would have. Sherlock tensed as he waited for John’s fingers to jab into his sensitive scalp, but no such touch came. Instead, John carded his soapy fingers through the detective’s curls, his short nails gently scraping.

Shuddering, Sherlock leaned into the touch. John chuckled breathily into his ear, fingers curling as he restarted the process. “Feel good?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but found that his linguistic capabilities had gone temporarily offline. Instead, he let out a half-groan, half-purr. John laughed again.

“I told you I would rock your world.”

Sherlock felt his soapy hair congealing beneath his doctor’s fingers as they rubbed circles into his head. This was certainly not how the detective usually washed his hair.

“You had me so scared, Sherlock,” John whispered into Sherlock’s left ear as his fingernails scraped the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

Sherlock jerked away from John’s soothing ministrations, turning to face the doctor sternly. Bath water sloshed out of the tub and onto the linoleum with a weak splash. “John Hamish Watson, it would take a lot more than a couple of idiotic thugs to do me in. You cannot spend your entire life worrying for me. No one should take on a responsibility like that. I’m too liable to get hurt for you to be able to stop every single punch that is thrown at me.”

John pursed his lips. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resettling between the doctor’s strong thighs. “You’re impossible,” he sighed for the second time that evening.

John cupped water in his hands and rinsed Sherlock’s hair, the soapy water streaming down his closed eyelids. “I still need to tend to that cut. It doesn’t look very good, but it’s not serious.”

Of course, Sherlock already knew this, but he also knew that the doctor found comfort in taking care of him. “Well, you’ve finished washing my hair, so can we get out now? You’re exhausted I’m sure.”

John wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock and kissed his right shoulder. “If you want. You need sleep, too, you know.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, keeping up the pretense that he wasn’t tired even though they both knew he was just as exhausted as the doctor. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

John reached for their soft white bath linens as Sherlock reached forward and plucked the cover off the drain, watching the soapy water spiral and disappear. He stiffened as John rubbed his head with a towel, easing once he realized how gentle John was. He allowed the doctor to dry his hair for several minutes, only standing when goose-pimples erupted across his arms. John toweled off the detective carefully, ensuring every inch was dry before stepping out of the tub and heading for the medicine cabinet.

Sherlock followed suit and sat on the covered toilet, towel firmly wrapped around his waist. Despite John’s thorough drying, the ends of his curls were dripping slowly onto his back, and he shivered as John assembled the required supplies.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as the cold, burning ointment was smeared across his temple by expert fingers. John carefully cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged the cut, finishing the ritual with a kiss to the covered wound. “There. You’re free to go.”

“What do I owe you, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, smiling crookedly.

John’s eyes flashed with desire before he reigned himself in. “We can discuss payment tomorrow, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock laughed as the doctor carefully washed his hands, following John out the door and down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom. Wordlessly, they both pulled on their pyjamas, stifling yawns as they crawled under the covers.

Sherlock snuggled up against John, amazed by his body heat. John kissed the top of his freshly cleaned head, wrapping an arm around the detective.

“You’re an idiot, Sherlock Holmes,” John yawned, reaching for the lamp.

“That’s why I have you, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock murmured as they both drifted off to a contented sleep.


End file.
